I stumble down to breakfast this morning and there's a big, fat letter, hand-delivered, sitting on my doormat (a doormat that happens to be a brushwire picture of Jerry Garcia, the frickin' hippie king whose bearded face I love to rub my running-shoes on). To me, a hand-delivered letter always means bad news. This one's no different - it's from the lawyers of the Conservative Lord whom I punched unconscious, and he's not backing down.
The court date is now set for three weeks away, and the guy also warns me about writing anything about the "incident" in this column. Well, he can stick that right up where the sun don't shine. This guy even has the balls to end the letter by reminding me that I am "a guest in this country" and that "things are done slightly differently over here".
My friend Ben thinks I'm in big shit and that defending myself is suicidal. He thinks that we should try to get the whole trial relocated to Italy. That was where the "incident" actually happened and Ben says that the Italian courts are so corrupt that we can just pay them off. A friend of his got off a really serious insurance scam out there by slipping the local mayor some dough. Ben says he knows some people and he's going to see if he can do some blocking manoeuvre. I put a call into David Cameron's office to see if, now I'm working for the guy, he can use his influence to call this asshole off. I hope he comes through for me.
The good news is that Victoria and I are back together big time. She can't get enough of the old Coop at the moment, and I don't mind admitting that I am flat exhausted, if you know what I mean. We went to an amazing party in a power station last week, hosted by Orlando who seems to know everybody who's anybody in London. The theme was Eastern Chic, and the evening was a charity event to raise money for some terrible disaster thing.
I thought it would be cool to go as Osama bin Laden, and I managed to persuade Victoria to dress up in the full Muslim bedsheet-look, despite her having just bought some "amazing" dress from someone called Diane von Furstenberg. I've no idea who she is, but she sounds like she should be selling Nazi memorabilia, not dresses, but, hey, what do I know?
We spent an hour trying to get a black cab to stop for us on Westbourne Grove, and then a group of teenagers started shouting at us and one of them threw a big frickin' rock at Victoria. The weird thing was that they looked like they were Arabs themselves - I swear the whole Queensway area is like downtown Baghdad! We were only having a bit of fun and you would have thought that they'd appreciate someone having a good time dressed up like that, rather than blowing shit up. Anyway, after all the drama, we finally get to the party only to find that I've completely misunderstood the concept and that everyone is dressed in Japanese-/ Chinese- type shit. Victoria is frickin' furious but we end up having a ball.
Let me tell you this - Osama is a babe magnet. The Coopster got hit on so much he looked like a punchbag. We all ended up going to some late-night bar on the Fulham Road, where we see Prince Harry and girlfriend in a corner. Orlando tells me that I'd better watch out as they'll think I'm this guy who gatecrashed Prince William's 21st birthday party. Victoria is so drunk she wants to go and say hello, but his security guy keeps her away. I think we looked like a potentially lethal case of bad headlines.
Victoria has decided that I'm too stressed out and she's made me go to these yoga classes at the Life Centre in Notting Hill. Far Eastern philosophies and the Coop don't really mix, but Madonna goes there and what's good for the Material Girl is good for the Coopster. I went to a couple of sessions last week and... I don't know. There are some seriously hot chicks in there and, as Victoria says, it's definitely not for riff-raff, but I just don't dig it. Back in LA, like everyone else, I used my NA meetings to do a lot of business. The problem with yoga is (like it's a problem) that there aren't many dudes in there. The scene is super chick-heavy. It's great for Victoria as a lot of them are in fashion/media, but that's not my bag. Movie dudes don't really do yoga. That's why I like movie dudes. The industry's full of frantic fuck-ups with no time for anything until the big burn-out, and then they've got all the time they need because they're unemployed. What I'm saying is, anyone in the movie business who's into yoga is not really in the movie business.
The week ended badly when some racist scum splashed paint all over my Quattroporte. They wrote "BALD AMERICAN WANKER" all the way down the side. Really sophisticated shit! If I caught the assholes who did this, I would personally string them up on a lamp-post outside their respective grandmothers' houses. I mention this at a "New Conservative" dinner party I go to in Shepherd's Bush and I'm told by a VERY good source that DC (as Cameron is known) is going to go "full aggressive mental" on law and order once he's in, but isn't going to risk ruining his new "green" image beforehand. Everyone thinks that I should run as a Member of Parliament. I'm quite tempted. Cooper Out.